


I Married an Angel

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1942, Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), First Kiss, Gratuitous references to quite terrible movie musicals, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sappy, They are very very in love, True Love, Wing Grooming, World War II Era, and soft, are we dating?, hand-holding, ineffable husbands, ngk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: “It’s a date,” Crowley said gleefully and rang off.Aziraphale stared at the handset.It’s a date.Well, that was a thing humans said all the time. A date was just an arrangement, lower-case 'a', and part oftheirArrangement. Just because a year ago, when Aziraphale had thought they would always remain stiff and awkward and never regain their ease with each other, Crowley had saved him, handed him the books with that pleased self-conscious smirk, as if offering him his heart…It wasn’t adate.  They weren’t courting or anything. Crowley would laugh his skinny posterior off at the thought.Perhaps he should buy a new tie.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 309
Collections: An Angel and a Demon Walked into a Bookshop: Ineffable Husbands Stories, Promptposal





	I Married an Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silvercolour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercolour/gifts).



> Dear Silvercolour, thank you so much for being my date to Junior Prom. I don't think I could ever live up to the sheer beautiful softness of your bouquet to me, but here is my best attempt. It has softness, and musicals, and wings.
> 
>  _I Married an Angel_ is hardly a classic wartime movie musical. It was a terrible flop and lost money. But I am a big fan of the stars, and the title and theme were irresistible.
> 
> [Here's a link to the trailer in all its glory](https://youtu.be/134Tx_U4dMQ).

They had been meeting at theatres and musical performances for centuries. Milling crowds, no reason to notice an angel and a demon chattering. There was no reason, Crowley had argued, not to do the same thing and meet at a cinematographic show.

"A _film_ , angel," Crowley had said, with fraught patience that could become either indulgence or _im_ patience at any point. "Time to get with the twentieth century. Look, it's a music—an operetta. You adore operetta. At one point, if you had dragged me to any more things with hilarious mixups and patter songs, I was going to go to Hell and help Dagon devise some really personal torments for Sullivan, involving sub-par baritones. I sat through four acts of _The Student Prince_ for you. You can sit through one film for me.”

“I didn’t _drag_ you to anything,” Aziraphale said, stiffly. “It was simply a convenient meeting place.”

“And convenient to eat a four-course meal afterwards. Look, angel, anyway, point made. The film is a convenient meeting place.”

“I do know what a musical is, you know,” Aziraphale said, returning to an earlier point.

“Oh, come on, be a pal. Look, it has Nelson Eddy and Jeanette McDonald, and they are the supposed to be the stars of silver screen operetta—yes, _truly_ operetta, angel—and it’s their last film together. You’ll never get another chance.”

That was another thing. Human life and culture were so ephemeral, slipping away like that. Cities and empires rising and falling. Films were a sign of it. They showed for a few scant weeks and then were gone, never to be heard of again. Only books endured. Books, and a certain demon.

“You know Hollywood was one of my greatest achievements, angel,” Crowley wheedled.

“It’s an _American_ film?”

“You don’t have to say it like that. Perfectly enjoyable place, the States.”

“It’s simply impossible to get a decent drink there.”

“Great, reminds you of Heaven. Look, I think they’ve come along in that area in the last few decades since you visited, Aziraphale. And you could always get a drink if you knew where to look.”

“I would hardly call bathtub gin a _decent_ drink.”

“How would you know?”

Aziraphale sighed, evading the question. “Well. If I must.”

“It’s a date,” Crowley said gleefully and rang off.

Aziraphale stared at the handset. _It’s a date._ Well, that was a thing humans said all the time. A date was just an arrangement, lower-case “a”, and part of _their_ Arrangement. Just because a year ago, when Aziraphale had thought they would always remain stiff and awkward and never regain their ease with each other, Crowley had saved him, handed him the books with that pleased self-conscious smirk, as if offering him his heart… Well. He was in love with a demon. Always a danger, really, when a creature of love spent so much time in the company of a (considerate, impossible, charming, impossible, frustrating, brave, beautiful) surprisingly amicable fellow immortal. Love was never a sin, and the thing to do was to swallow it and carry on, as usual, being glad that they were properly friends—friendly rivals again.

It wasn’t a _date_. They weren’t courting or anything. Crowley would laugh his skinny posterior off at the thought.

Perhaps he should buy a new tie.

* * *

Perhaps he should have asked what the film was called.

“Oh, _really._ ”

“Now, isn’t that a coincidence?” Crowley grinned at the marquee, where _I Married an Angel_ was emblazoned. Aziraphale thought about turning around and going home in a huff, but then—Crowley was twinkling at him over the top of his dark spectacles, and his long flexible mouth was quirked with mischief, and Aziraphale wanted, oh how he wanted to kiss it. Impossible. But he _could_ accept the arm slipped into his, and go with unusual docility into the theatre.

The crowd were cheerful around them. Poor things, needing something to take their minds off this dreadful war. Crowley was doing something mysterious in the war, which Aziraphale dutifully pretended to think was shocking and devious, but which he suspected actually involved running around selling miracled black-market sugar and tea from under that rather dashing coat. Certainly, Aziraphale had not run out since what he thought of in rather ashamed capitals as The Books Incident.

In any case, humans called each other ‘angel’ all the time. As an endearment, an endearment that made his heart stop, sometimes, when he heard it because he would remember it dropping from long expressive lips, a lilt to it that said unspoken things. The choice was just Crowley’s little joke. It wasn’t like this show would be about falling in love with and marrying a literal angel.

It was.

The film was actually quite charming. Silly, and _what_ an idea of angels, everyone involved would faint if they met Sandalphon or one of the other Dominions, let alone a Chariot, but the musical numbers were very nicely composed and performed and it was… romantic.

After the wedding night, Crowley leaned over, took his arm, and whispered in his ear, “Do your wings really fall off if you do _that_?”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale could feel his cheeks burning. And Crowley wasn’t releasing his arm, he was settling back into his seat and his hand was sliding down, over forearm and wrist, settling on his hand.

Surely Crowley’s hand wasn’t _trembling._ Surely it wasn’t damp and shaking, and nervous.

Aziraphale’s fingers laced between his without even consciously willing it, and he heard an indrawn breath in the darkness. They sat there, ridiculous, what looked like two men in the forties watching a cinematographic show, anxiously hand in hand, and somehow it felt of more significance than anything in Heaven and Hell.

* * *

“ _You’ve been an angel and you’ve been a very dumb one,_ ” carolled Crowley. Well, ‘carolled’ was one way of putting it. ‘Hissed vaguely musically’ was another. “ _Because you’ve lacked that little twinkle in your eye._ ” He grasped Aziraphale’s waist and spun him on the street, heedless of the people staring.

“Not true at all,” Aziraphale protested, freeing himself a little reluctantly. Really, Crowley was acting quite mad, like a bottle of ginger beer that had been shaken too much and was fizzing all over the place.

“True. Your eyes do twinkle, angel. It’s one of the first things people notice about you. That and your clothes.” Crowley sauntered on, still singing. “ _And while you’re at it: add a little twinkle to your **walk**_.”

“I think you’ve already managed that one, dear,” Aziraphale said, trying not to stare at the wildly swaying hips in front of him. Modern trousers were not quite as form-fitting as some he had observed Crowley wearing in in his time, but they were form-fitting enough that watching that lean backside wriggling caused all kinds of distracting thoughts. He could still feel the shadow image of Crowley’s hand in his, palm against palm. Once Aziraphale had squeezed, and Crowley had lifted their linked hands and kissed his wrist, there in the darkness. A soft, close-lipped, tender caress. No demonic seduction about it. Just a moment that no one could see. A moment that was shattering reality, shattering everything Aziraphale knew.

Crowley was wild and joyful and dancing on the street, and all Aziraphale could feel was love and tenderness and _fear._ Crowley was so very, very reckless, and Aziraphale was making him _worse._ Aziraphale was reckless, too, all these meetings and hints and _looks_. The angel in the film might be ready to risk Judgement Day to save her sinful, worldly husband, but…

Aziraphale should turn. He should walk away. He should stop this at once.

The kiss on his wrist still burned, and he could remember another fire. His precious books were safely locked away, and he would never sell those, never. And Crowley was so _happy._

“Come back for a tipple?” Aziraphale heard himself saying.

* * *

They had drunk together a thousand times, as human cultures rose and fell, but this was the first time Crowley had slumped against Aziraphale’s shoulder, snakeskin shoes discarded, socked feet tucked up under him. His hair was so pretty short like that, copper curls inviting touching. And Aziraphale could kiss him. He could put a finger under his chin, lift his head, claim that irritating, devastating mouth. He was sure, now, that Crowley would welcome the kiss, part his lips and press back. There was nothing stopping him now.

Nothing except everything.

He sighed.

“Something up,?” Quick, nervous alertness. Not as drunk and relaxed as he seemed, then.

“Thinking about wings,” he said, truthfully.

“Did it bother you? That Angel lost her wings?” Crowley sat up straighter, looked sharply at him.

Yes. Yes, of course, it bothered him. “Not at all.”

“Want me to check yours?” Crowley had lost his glasses long ago, and his eyes were bright and golden, the pupils long dark slashes. Too intent.

“What?”

“Check your wings, angel. You never _did_ groom them well enough.”

“Just because I don’t indulge in the sin of vanity.”

“Of course you do. You’re always wrapped up in cream and gold like a Christmas cracker. You just don’t bother with your wings because no one can see you.”

Well. Low blow, but accurate. Aziraphale pressed his lips together.

“Come on, angel.”

Maybe he was drunk, but he stood and took off his jacket. He was rather fond of that jacket. Fond of the shirt, too, and he couldn’t risk tearing that, not with clothes rationing. He prided himself on buying his own clothes. Crowley was staring at him, eyes wide and gold, as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Then he shucked the undershirt off as well and let his wings spread, stretching his shoulders, feeling the relief of it.

“Bless, Aziraphale,” Crowley choked. “You’re so — Well, uh, aaaaargh. They’re a mess. You must know that. If you, if you could lie down. On the couch.” He stood up himself.

“Crowley, you don’t have to—“

“Payment. For the date.” No more pretence that it had been some kind of meeting, then. “Aziraphale, even if—I know we _can’t_ —let me do this for you.”

Aziraphale lowered himself onto the couch, pillowed his face in his folded arms, and waited. He was fairly sure he was trembling.

“All right. It’s fine. I’m doing this,” Crowley said as if reassuring himself. He placed his hands carefully, one on each base of the wings, and Aziraphale’s wings fluttered despite himself. “Don’t be nervous,” Crowley said, voice tight with nerves himself. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t ever, ever hurt you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, voice thick, and then tried to ease it by adding, “As if you _could_ , demon.” Of course he could. He could shatter Aziraphale into a thousand pieces and walk away. If he wanted to.

He wouldn’t.

“Let me get these in order.” Crowley ran his hands down, sinking them into soft warm feathers, pulling and straightening and fussing, pulling a loose feather out every now and then. Following the flow of feathers, aligning them, gently gathering oil and spreading it to make the feathers soft and shining. Aziraphale could feel the delicate burn of demonic magic every now and then when feathers needed cleaning or healing until Aziraphale was melting and pliant under the heat and the touch and the gentleness. He could feel choked breath behind him, but his bones were gone, were falling, free fall, a falling angel…

“Don’t cry. Oh, don’t cry, my love.” Soft kisses on his back between the wings. “It’s all right, it’s all right. They are there, they are white, they will stay that way, I promise.”

 _I’m so starved for your touch,_ Aziraphale wanted to say. These little moments, fingers touching on the handles of a suitcase, linked fingers in a cinema audience, and now the grooming. It was almost too much, these tiny things, and all he could do was weep.

Crowley lay against his back, covered him. “I know, I know.” There was a brush, the faintest brush, of a kiss on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and a whisper that might have been _I love you, too,_ and Crowley was gone.

* * *

There were other visits to films after that, but Crowley never called them dates again, and they never held hands. And Crowley never offered to groom Aziraphale’s wings.

He did dance on the street once more, though, in May in 1945. Aziraphale picked him up, and swung him around in the air, and in the anonymity of all the kissing and embracing in the streets, their lips may just have brushed for a moment.

They never spoke of it in that century.

* * *

**2019**

“Fancy a cinematographic show, my dear?”

Aziraphale looked across the table. Crowley’s face, oh, when had Crowley’s face ever been so open, so smiling, so fond? Not since Eden.

“It’s just that there are a Nelson Eddy and Jeanette McDonald film festival, and I’m afraid everyone’s tickets miraculously got confused, so they will be playing to an empty theatre. They will all be amply compensated, of course,” he added guiltily. “It’s a rather special showing.”

Crowley laughed. So openly, so joyfully. “ _I Married an Angel?_ ”

“Not _yet_ you haven’t,” Aziraphale said primly, and Crowley launched himself across the table at him, all grabbing hands and eager, seeking mouth.

“Really, dear, at the _Ritz,_ ” Aziraphale said, reproachful and openly delighted.

“Why not? I can tell everybody now how I feel about you. _I’ll tell the man on the street, and everyone that I meet, that you and I are sweethearts…_ ”

“I can’t believe you memorised all the songs in that film.”

“Do you know how many times I watched it before I took you? It’s a stupid movie, but I wanted, I imagined…”

“I know, dear boy, I know.”

“You let me hold your hand. You let me _kiss_ your hand. Oh, fuck. I love you.”

“So it’s a date?”

“Yeah, it’s a date,” Crowley said, firmly. “Um. Ah. Um. The film, or the. You know. Wedding.”

“Both,” Aziraphale said, and Ritz or no Ritz, he pulled his demon onto his lap and held him tight. It only took a very little miracle to make sure no one noticed, and who was doing the accounting for his miracles now, anyway? “And my wings need grooming.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale chuckled and kissed him.


End file.
